I learned you were dead on a Saturday. I remember it being a Saturday because my neighbor, the elderly Mrs. Grisham, who kept large hedges between her house and mine, was milling about in her petunias as I came up the sidewalk from a store just down the road. She only touches her flowers on Saturdays before her granddaughter comes to visit.

When I got inside my own home, I found a tawny barn owl perched on one of the chairs at my kitchen table, a sealed envelope resting beside it.

I had found it strange at first, since I rarely received owl post anymore, not since I had switched over to just traveling to Hogsmeade twice a month to the owl post office there to get my mail. But this envelope looked old, dated.

I sat down my sack on the counter and went over to the owl, giving it a small pet before picking up its delivery.

"What have you got for me, huh?" I whispered to the bird. "Not junk mail, I hope?"

The owl flapped its wings twice and cocked its head in response and I only laughed and petted it once more.

My laughing stopped short, however, when I saw the familiar scrawl of your handwriting. It was just my name printed there, no return address, nothing.

I broke the seal, almost too hastily, and pulled out several folded pieces of parchment. There was no date.

Dearest Clara,

I know this must seem strange to receive a letter from me, someone who has not spoken to you for many years. I fear, however, that if you are reading this then it has finally happened: I am dead.

I am dead. The words bounced off of one another, about my head, striking me with a fearsome blow. And, for a moment, I did not cry. The world kept on going outside my door, time still continued on, but, around me, it stopped completely.

I am dead.

I don't know how, but I had managed to get to my living room, letter still in hand. I collapsed on the sofa and forced myself to read on. Just a little more, I told myself. A little more, and you can put it away.

I am sorry you must find out this way. You, who are so gentle, fragile…I wish there could've been a better way.

Clara, know that I never intended for things to happen the way they did, know that the frightened young man you once knew regretted those actions and has not once forgotten them, nor has he forgotten your face, your laughter, the softness of your touch. I wish that I could have seen you one last time, to see the woman you had become. But fate is cruel in that way, I'm afraid.

This letter is not a confession, nor is it one in which I beg for forgiveness. It is simply one in which to give you comfort and grant us both a bit of absolution.

Hopefully, by the time this letter comes to a close, I will have achieved that goal and not have failed you once again.

My dear Clara, I am so sorry.

Something wet splashed upon the page. At first, I thought it might have been rain, but soon realized I was still indoors on a perfectly sunny day. I was crying. As soon as the realization came to light, the tears came hard and fast, stinging my eyes, blurring my vision. I let out retched sobs that sounded much like a wounded animal, my chest heaving with each ragged breath I took. I felt the letter crinkle in my hands as I wept, brought it up to my face.

A heavy weight was crushing me. Outside, the world continued on, but, you, Remus, are dead, and thus have stopped time for me entirely.